She downed wine bottles to the last drop,
Smoked cigarettes like her life depended on it,
And took her good night’s sleep in the day
Until streetlights become her sunrise.

She never thought about tomorrow;
For her, there was only today.

She didn’t believe in yesterdays either,
Because every time she woke up
Last night’s memories become blurs
That she could not make sense of.

Sometimes she smelled like a million dollars,
Sometimes like morning breath and alcohol.

She was like a thought passing by–
Within arm’s reach but still intangible.

Strangers line up to unwrap and taste;
She is savored for a moment,
And forgotten the next–
Another flavor confused with many others.
She gave pieces of herself away like candy,
And sometimes I wonder
If she still has enough of herself left.

Maybe she does.

Maybe she doesn’t.

Maybe she looks for pieces she could use
To fill her hollow gaps
Every night she goes into town.

She was the blooming child of “Maybe” and “Why,”
Wilting, but still alive,
Still taking in the air
Even when it reeks of tobacco,
Still taking in the water
Even when it’s mixed with alcohol,
Still living in the now while she can.

Maybe “now” is all that she has left,
And maybe she doesn’t know what to do with it.